


This Peril Too

by arysteia



Category: The Moon-Spinners - Mary Stewart
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 02:18:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17051198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arysteia/pseuds/arysteia
Summary: Time marches on, even in Crete, but some things never change.





	This Peril Too

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tiriel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiriel/gifts).



> For Tiriel. I was delighted to see that you also love this book, which has always been a great favourite of mine. Happy Yuletide, and I hope you enjoy this fic.
> 
>  _By hook or by crook this peril too shall be something that we remember._ Homer, The Odyssey.

I think it was Pericles who said: _Just because you don’t take an interest in politics, doesn't mean politics won't take an interest in you_ and he was right. Not that I took _no_ interest, but by 1967 I was a married woman of two years’ standing, and rather keener on matters domestic - matters which are, after all, just as much Athene’s province as war and strategy - and I would think that anyone who has ever been in love, or found themselves setting up their first home, will sympathise with me. Frances had a thing or two to say about the enthusiasm with which I took to poring over design magazines and waxing lyrical about upholstery patterns, but as kind as she had always been to me, and as happy as I had been living with her, I think she understood how exciting it was for me as an orphan and only child to contemplate a permanent home and family of my own.

In any case, it had been a marvellous few years. The incident in Agios Giorgios resolved to everyone’s satisfaction, Mark refused to hear of my going back to my job at the embassy in Athens for a minute longer than absolutely necessary, a thing I’m sure I would have found insufferably high handed only a few months earlier, but which instead, in the first flush of infatuation, struck me as dashingly romantic. His Excellency the Ambassador frowned a little at the thought of one of his ducklings being carried off by a strange young man in a _caique_ , and insisted on inspecting said young man’s passport, but softened somewhat when he realised he had met Mr Langley, Senior, in Havana some years previous, and capitulated entirely when I was able to recommend a recently arrived girlfriend to take over my job. Never underestimate the desire of an Englishman to avoid doing any of his own filing! 

Any qualms Frances might have had about the appropriateness of a fifteen year old boy serving as chaperone were assuaged by Lambis setting a hand meaningfully on the knife in his belt and avowing himself my brother and protector. Colin almost laughed himself into a fit at the look on Mark’s face, and Frances declared herself satisfied and went off to finally have a holiday of her own, away from all the dramas of the lovestruck youth, the Soho criminal element, and the Cretan blood feud. We sailed from Piraeus to Patras, where we bade a fond farewell to Lambis, and boarded a somewhat larger ferry to Brindisi, whence we made our way to Rome, and a British Airways flight back to London. 

The entire Langley clan was there to meet us at Heathrow, which was more than a little intimidating, but Mrs Langley was mostly concerned with inspecting every inch of her baby boy for injuries unconfessed by telegram, and Colin himself, who had been so brave for so long, finally relaxed in his mother’s arms and allowed that perhaps he _had_ been just a _little_ frightened while tied up and held prisoner in a high country windmill. Mr Langley immediately drew Mark aside and began interrogating him about what the Greek authorities planned to do about the absconded Tony, and whether they oughtn’t to call Scotland Yard after all, let them take over the whole business rather than just the robbery that was within their jurisdiction.

That left me to the tender mercies of Mark’s sisters, who were in the flesh very much as Colin had described them: Charlotte, strikingly attractive in her scarlet lipstick and chic black coat, Ann, quieter but no less friendly, and Julia, very much a female version of Colin, all bubbly enthusiasm and schoolgirl slang. Where their parents had acknowledged me politely then turned their entire attention to the boys, the girls nodded at their brothers then set upon me like villagers starved for news on an unsuspecting traveller. Fortunately, like Odysseus before me, I had a tale well worth the telling, and as they took turns to gasp or exclaim, my nervousness vanished and I found I liked them all very much. Even more fortunately, the sentiment was returned, and after a few weeks staying at the Langleys’ home - Mark’s parents, once they’d had their fill of their errant sons, were hugely apologetic for ignoring me, and wouldn’t hear of my going anywhere else - I wound up moving into the recently vacated second bedroom of Charlie’s flat in town.

The next few years flew by in a happy blur, with Mark getting a good job in a London based firm, and in between big projects proving a very attentive suitor, taking me to shows, and dinners, and cocktail parties with his friends and colleagues, a rather smart set; assiduously inviting Frances to spend Christmas at his parents’ home when she didn’t have plans elsewhere, and in all ways acting as if we were already part of the family. By the time he made it official with a sapphire and diamond ring on my twenty-fifth birthday, I truly felt like the happiest and luckiest woman alive. I certainly couldn’t have imagined such an ending that first night we spent together in a ramshackle shepherds’ hut in the wilds of highland Crete. Our wedding was small but perfect, and when we returned from a brief honeymoon in Skye - more mountains, more hiking, but fortunately no more jewel thieves or murderers - we moved into our first home together. Can you blame me for becoming domesticated? 

Imagine my surprise, then, when Mark came home late one evening, and without so much as a glance at the dinner I had painstakingly kept warm for him, burst out with, “What on earth does the bloody little fool think he’s doing?”

I suppose I looked unimpressed, because he smiled sheepishly, took off his coat, and came over quickly to give me a kiss. “Sorry darling,” he said. “And sorry to keep you waiting, I’ve been round with Mum, she’s beside herself.”

After that, I didn’t feel much like eating either, but we sat down anyway, and picked at our food. I poured us each a stiff gin, and said, “Go on then. What’s he done? I assume you mean Colin?” 

My brother-in-law was now twenty, and as pig headed as his brother had ever been, perhaps more so. They were still very close, of course, but Mark was impossibly square, in Colin’s book, and now that we were married and living in Hampstead, so, unfortunately, was I. He’d shocked his parents by refusing to go to university after he finished school, and instead had gone back to Greece the long way, driving a Kombi van from Calais, through France and northern Italy, then the length of Yugoslavia, stopping only to send the occasional postcard home to let us know he was still alive. It had been a considerable relief when _Lambis_ called long distance to let us know he’d wound up in Crete, and seemed willing to settle down for a while. Dear old Lambis, doomed always to clean up the messes of stubborn young Englishmen!

Mark sighed. “You won’t believe this, sweetheart,” he said, and I confess the endearment still gave me a thrill after two years of connubial bliss, “but he’s run off to live in a cave.”

“He’s what?” I asked, sure I must have misheard. “Did you say a _cave_?”

“Yes,” Mark said, and I could see the first signs of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, warring with the genuine worry in his eyes. “There’s some sort of _hippie commune_ ” - his voice dripped with the scorn that had won him his reputation as an avuncular stick-in-the-mud with a mini-skirted Julia, as well as Colin - “set up in a neolithic cave complex in Matala. That’s a fishing village about fifty miles outside Heraklion, and what the poor villagers did to deserve having a bunch of unwashed Americans and Northern Europeans descend on them I can’t tell you.”

“And they all live together in a cave?” I asked, and I admit I was a little horrified at the thought myself.

“No, they each have a little cave of their own,” Mark explained. “Apparently there’s hundreds of them, all the size of a single bedroom, and the hippies” - another shudder at the indignity of having a brother who could lay claim to such a title - “set up house in one that’s free, and then they all come out to socialise on the seashore. God knows what they do there, swim naked and play guitar, I suppose.”

Smoke hashish and explore the wonders of free love, I rather suspected, but refrained from saying so.

“Anyway, darling,” and Mark looked miserable again, “Mum’s charged me to go get him and drag him home, or at least beg him to come to his senses.”

“What?” I asked, quite flabbergasted. “What about work? You can’t just up and leave without any notice.” What about _me_ I resolutely didn’t say. You can’t just up and leave me either.

“Oh, no,” Mark said, “That won’t be a problem. I’ve already asked for two weeks’ leave.”

“You have?”

“I have. Happy anniversary, Nicky my dearest, it was supposed to be a surprise.”

I burst out laughing. Oh, _Mark_.

“I thought it would be romantic,” Mark said, embarrassed. “And nice to see Crete again, without the imminent fear of death and discovery. Well, now we’ll just have the fear of being admonished by the village priest, and accused of being out of touch by the kids. Sorry.”

I finished my drink, and stood up, walking around the table towards Mark. “I can’t imagine anything better, darling,” I said, taking his hand and pulling him up to join me. “But if we’re going to be spending our holiday in a cave, we’d better make the most of our time with a proper bed.”

“Mrs Langley!” Mark exclaimed, then broke up laughing himself, good humour restored. “Nicola, that’s the best offer I’ve heard all week.” And then he swept me up into his arms, and carried me upstairs to our bedroom.

Two weeks later we arrived in Heraklion. Lambis was at the ferry terminal to collect us, and he at least was very little changed since last we’d seen him. The same could not be said for the city, which was teeming with tourists as expected, but also bustling in a way that was more reminiscent of Athens than the islands.

Lambis shrugged. “Time moves on, even in Crete,” he said. “The young people” - he couldn’t have been more than thirty himself, but he sounded like a wise old man - “don’t want to live in the villages anymore. The city calls to them all.”

We drove out to Lambis’ mother’s house in Ambelokipi, where Kyria Neonakis welcomed us with a dinner fit for a king: plate after plate of _mezedes_ , those bite sized morsels that Greek cooks do so well, _dolmades_ , the vineleaves stuffed to bursting with rice and currants and pinenuts, and olives, and little fried anchovies, and a selection of cheeses, the local specialties of _graviera_ and _mizithra_ and _anthotiros_ instead of the fetta ubiquitous on the mainland, and finally a dish of _soutzoukakia_ , meltingly tender meatballs served in a spicy tomato sauce. As we ate and talked and laughed, Lambis kept filling our tiny glasses with _tsikoudia_ , the local fire water, no doubt made by his own hands in the little shed in the back garden, and by the time his mother excused herself to bed we were very merry indeed.

Over breakfast the next morning, thick yoghurt with sweet honey and pungent thyme, bitter orange marmalade on toast, and flaky little _tiropites_ , cheese pies, with cup after cup of strong, hot coffee, we made our plan. Mark and I would take the first week of our holiday for ourselves, to celebrate our anniversary, to relax, and to see some of our old haunts and how they’d changed. The next week, we would drive out to Matala and see how Colin was faring with his friends. Our worries had already been a little allayed, as Lambis said that he had been to the caves, and it was not such a den of iniquity as a mother - or sister-in-law, but I admitted nothing! - might imagine, and Colin was in fact very comfortable, and quite happy, in his tiny home.

Well! You know what they say about the best laid plans of mice and men. 

A mere three days after our arrival, we came downstairs in the morning to find Lambis and his mother sitting at the kitchen table, the omnipresent coffee accompanied by tumblers filled to the brim with wine, Lambis smoking and looking grim, and his mother obviously crying, though she wiped her eyes quickly when she saw us and leapt to her feet to begin preparing breakfast.

“ _Katsé, mama_ ,” Lambis said shortly, and Mrs Neonakis sat down again. “I’m sorry, Mark, Nicola,” he went on.

“What’s happened?” Mark asked, as I set about pouring us both a cup of coffee.

“It’s all right,” Lambis said to his mother. “We can trust them.”

She nodded. “Of course.”

Lambis waited for me to sit down, then said, “They’ve really done it. I didn’t think they would.”

A million dire thoughts flitted through my mind, though nothing could have prepared me for what he actually said.

“They’ve overthrown the government, the ministers are all arrested, there are tanks on the streets of Athens.”

“ _What?_ ” Mark demanded, speaking for the pair of us. “Who’s ‘ _they_ ’?”

Lambis shrugged. “Some colonels,” he said. “ _Horiati_ , old men from the villages, conservatives, anti-communists. They say they’ve come to save us from leftists and royalists and infidels, and the scourge of long hair and mini-skirts and labour unions, and new ideas. Oh, and old ideas too!” He laughed bitterly.

“Old _and_ new?” Mark asked skeptically. “And communists and royalists are equally _personae non gratae_? That seems a schizophrenic sort of revolution.”

“There you have it,” Lambis said, taking a deep draft of his wine. “Who knows what they really want? I suppose we’ll find out soon enough. You needn’t worry, Nicola,” he added. “You’ll be perfectly safe. Though I do think we should go and collect Colin as soon as possible. The village priests have been trying to clear the caves for months, and now they’ll have the police on their side. Someone will get hurt, if only by accident.”

Mark and I took some rolls and cheese upstairs with us, along with a fresh pot of coffee, and Lambis went into town to see what the men were saying in the _kafeneion_. Mrs Neonakis put on her best black dress and went to church. We climbed onto the high brass bed together, and Mark started fiddling with his travel radio while I poured the coffee and made makeshift sandwiches. It was all too reminiscent of past adventures, though considerably more comfortable. There was nothing playing on local radio stations but a constant repertoire of martial music, but the BBC World Service, sure enough, confirmed that there had been a coup in Athens, the entire city was under military control, all high ranking politicians, including the former Prime Minister, George Papandreou, and his son, Andreas, were under house arrest, and a Colonel Papadopoulos had pronounced the bulk of the Constitution suspended, and proclaimed himself head of a triumvirate that would rule Greece for the duration of the emergency, with the support of perhaps a dozen other colonels. There had been very little bloodshed, the announcer was quick to report, though people were encouraged to stay in their homes, as there had been a number of fatalities among those who had rushed out into the streets to see what was going on.

That certainly sent a shiver down my spine. What on earth were we going to do? On the one hand it was extremely unlikely the _junta_ would interfere directly with foreigners and risk damaging the booming tourism industry; on the other hand if they were truly cracking down on newfangled ideas and sacrilegious modern behaviour and social mores, then Greece would very quickly become an uncomfortable place to be. On yet a third, impossible, hand, it seemed abominably selfish to take advantage of our British passports and leave immediately, abandoning Lambis, and his mother, and everyone else we knew in Greece, to their fates.

When Mark spoke, shattering the silence that had fallen after the news broadcast, it was to echo my own thoughts. “We’ve got to go home, Nicola,” he said at last. “There’s no need to be frightened, but we don’t want to be stuck here if anything goes wrong. If it was just me I’d stay and see it through, but I can’t risk you and Colin getting hurt.”

“That’s enough of that!” I said sharply, my own worry making me waspish. “I wouldn’t feel any better if you were here without me, and whatever happens we’re doing it together.”

Mark wrapped his arm around me and kissed me firmly on the temple. “Yes, of course,” he murmured. “Together. But do me a favour, let’s not go _looking_ for trouble this time, eh?”

“Deal,” I agreed, and because there was nothing else to do, we lay down together on the bed and did what everyone does in these situations: listened to the radio fruitlessly for hours, waiting for bulletins and new information, quietly resenting every piece of news announced from anywhere else in the world, no matter how important it might have seemed on an ordinary day. Who could care about a probe landing on the moon, or Pompidou forming a government in Paris, or Muhammed Ali refusing to be drafted, when democracy was under threat in its very birthplace?

Eventually Lambis returned from Heraklion, and perhaps we should have paid more attention to the reports of 10,000 strong anti-Vietnam war protests in San Francisco, or the likelihood of war in Israel, or the independence of Aden, because the young men in the coffee shops were adamant it was the Americans, and the CIA especially, to blame for the coup. They refused to call it a revolution, though that was what its proponents insisted it was. It was all about NATO, and the American desire to contain communism at all costs, and their need for a naval base in Greece, apparently, and already unpleasant memories of the Civil War and its atrocities were being stirred up.

“And what about the king?” Mark asked.

Lambis scoffed. “The king is a boy! Barely older than Colin, and just as full of stupid ideas. And that mother of his has had far too much to say for far too long. No, he will do nothing, or it will be the end of the monarchy.”

Only in Greece, I thought, could a military coup come from the centre, and unite both anti-leftists, and anti-royalists.

“Surely the people won’t stand for it, though, Lambis?” I asked. “It can’t last long?”

“Ah, Nicola,” he replied, shaking his head. “You give us too much credit, I think. These colonels are _vlachi_ ” - that uniquely Greek insult that means both people from the countryside, and fools - “and the rest of the _vlachi_ agree with them. The big three, Papadopoulos, and Pattakos, and Makarezos, they all come from villages with populations less than three hundred people. It is a last gasp in the battle against the cities, as much as anything to do with international politics. And they have promised to build new hospitals, and enforce church going, and build a highway from Igoumenitsa to Thrace. Almost no one even lives there, let alone owns a car, but I’m sure the few that do will be very happy with their billion drachma personal road.”

“You think they’ll go along with it then?” Mark asked.

Lambis shrugged. “Perhaps. Or perhaps not. You know how - what’s the word, contrary? - Greeks can be. Some will think it’s a good thing to see some lazy, long haired, university students drafted into the army. Others will resent being told what to do. Along with all the arrests in Athens - sixteen thousand in one night, can you believe it? - there’s a list of anti-social behaviours to be banned, and it includes _rembetiko_ and plate smashing, so I can guarantee you the tavernas will be full of people singing the old songs and smashing plates tonight.”

I could well imagine it.

“Anyway,” Lambis sighed deeply, “I promise you one day you’ll get to see Crete without trouble. Perhaps when you bring your children to see where you met, and I’m an old man myself, to complain about their modern ways.”

“That sounds lovely,” I agreed, though more in the hope of lifting the somber mood than any real belief.

“Not too modern, I hope,” Mark added. “One hippie in the family is quite enough.”

We all laughed at that, and thus reminded of Colin we decided to drive out to Matala first thing the next morning to retrieve him. 

Mrs Neonakis was her old cheerful self at breakfast, and had put aside her widow’s black for a dress the blue and white of the Greek flag. It seemed her long vigil at the church, or perhaps the time spent with other older ladies, her friends and neighbours, had considerably reassured her. Certainly enough so that she had risen early to prepare a fine breakfast for us, as well as a basket packed full of pies and cakes and fruit to take with us on the road for lunch.

“Be polite to the policemen,” she said sharply to Lambis as we left, and he, stout hearted _palikari_ that he was, simply bowed his head for her kiss and agreed.

I don’t know if it was merely a mother’s intuition, or if she had seen something while out yesterday, or even if it was long memories of the Nazi occupation in Crete and then the bitter years of the Civil War after, but sure enough we ran into our first checkpoint as we were leaving Heraklion. There were police cars parked on both sides of the road, and a moustachioed gentleman in full dress uniform motioned for Lambis to pull over. He did so carefully.

“Papers please,” he said politely but firmly, and Lambis handed over both his driver’s licence and his national identity card.

The officer looked at them both carefully. “You live in Piraeus?” he asked. “What are you doing in Crete?”

“I was born in Crete,” Lambis said. “My mother lives in Ambelokipi. I’m visiting her.”

“Ah, good.” The policeman smiled and handed both cards back. “It’s good for a young man to take care of his parents.”

Lambis smiled back and nodded, but I could feel the tension in his leg next to mine on the seat.

“And who are these visitors of yours?” the officer asked.

I handed my and Mark’s passports to Lambis, who passed them out the window.

“Friends from England,” he said.

The officer glanced at the passports, but did not examine them particularly closely, beyond confirming the crest of the United Kingdom on the navy blue covers.

“Very good, very good,” he said, passing them back. “I hope you are enjoying your holiday,” he said to us in heavily accented English. We both nodded. “And where are you going today?”

“To Matala.”

The officer’s face clouded over, and when he spoke again it was considerably more sternly. “They do not look like trouble makers,” he said to Lambis, in Greek once more. “Why do they want to go there, a respectable married couple?”

Mark leaned over me, and employing all his considerable charm, said, in Greek, “We have come to retrieve my brother. He is young and foolish, and has made friends with the wrong sort of people.” His shudder of revulsion was only partially feigned. “Our mother desperately wants him to come home,” he went on, wisely capitalising on the officer’s demonstrated reverence for mothers.

“Ah!” said the policeman, all smiles once again. “You speak Greek!”

“Yes,” Mark said. “I’ve spent a lot of time here. I met my wife here in fact, she used to live in Athens.”

“How wonderful,” the officer agreed. “And good that you came to Crete, it’s much nicer here than in Athens.” We both nodded enthusiastically. “I went there, once,” he went on. “I didn’t like it.”

Beside me I could feel Lambis trying not to laugh.

“But of course, you are a good son, and a good brother. And a fortunate man, your wife is very beautiful. Go and find your wayward child.”

Lambis thanked him, put the car in gear, and pulled back out onto the road. Glancing back I could see a line of traffic had built up behind us during the conversation, but contrary to usual Greek practice, no one was honking their horn or leaning out their windows to yell invective or make rude gestures. Mark took my hand in his, and I could tell he’d noticed too.

“Next time, Nicola,” he said quietly. “We’ll come with the children, as Lambis said, and by then everything will have settled down again.”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll find some mischief to get into,” I said, as brightly as I could. “Why break a perfectly good family tradition?”

Mark squeezed my hand, and Lambis burst out laughing. “ _Anglesi_ ,” he said, shaking his head. “Only you.” 

“Don’t forget the mad dogs,” I said.

Lambis stared at me in confusion.

“Eyes on the road, old chap,” Mark said, and then we both launched into a chorus that would have done Noel Coward proud.

Lambis muttered under his breath, and made the sign against the evil eye, which only made us all laugh harder as we made our way to Matala.

We didn’t know it then, of course, but it was to be seven years before the dictatorship was overthrown and democracy restored. By then Mark and I did, indeed, have children, and we did take them to Crete to meet their godfather and have adventures of their own, but that is another story, for another day.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to see what the caves at Matala looked like, this is a great contemporary article: https://books.google.co.nz/books?id=QT8EAAAAMBAJ&pg=PA20&lr=&as_pt=MAGAZINES&hl=En&cd=4&redir_esc=y#v=twopage&q&f=true


End file.
